


A Life Worth Living

by PureChaos27



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24243760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PureChaos27/pseuds/PureChaos27
Summary: A character study of Yamamoto Takeshi and the events leading up to his attempted suicide.Because characters can often be more than they appear in canon, and Takeshi deserves more than to be reduced to a baseball idiot.
Kudos: 23





	A Life Worth Living

Takeshi…doesn’t want to die, not really.

It’s not that there’s something in the afterlife he’s looking for. Actually, if there’s only an eternity of nothingness, of sleep, well that’d actually be perfect.

He just doesn’t see any point in living anymore.

Day after day, wake up, get ready for school, plaster on a smile, leave the house with a call over his shoulder to his dad, go through the motions of classes and practice, go home, sleep, repeat. There’s just…no point.

He studies but gets distracted, practices but sees no improvement, interacts with friends that don’t see beyond the mask he wears every day.

Can’t they see the cracks in his smile? The way his eyes feel like they get duller by the week? How is it possible that _no one_ has noticed an act that seems so very obvious to him?

Some days, he doesn’t even try. He goes to school with no smile, baring to the world the apathy he’s trudged through for so long.

And still, no one notices.

Fangirls smile shyly at him, fellow classmates laughingly clap his back and joke about not getting his beauty’s sleep. When he goes home after an afternoon of half-hearted practice swings and pitches, his dad greets him with a _Welcome home_ and the same smile as usual.

(He’s too tired to notice the glint of worry in his eyes.)

See, Takeshi doesn’t want to die, not exactly.

But some days, he stares a little too long at one of his dad’s kitchen knives and thinks, _what if._ There are moments when he trails behind a group of teammates and observes as a forgotten outsider. Sometimes, he thinks about ropes and sleeping pills and roofs and wonders if his family owns a gun. Certain days, it’s all he can think about.

He keeps waiting, act barely a skeleton now, wondering (hoping) someone will notice.

(No one does)

Baseball becomes the only thing worth anything to him. It doesn’t spark emotion, no, nothing does that anymore. But when he’s on the field, feeling the burn of muscles in his arms, shoulders, back, as nerveless fingers clench around a bat meeting the momentum of the ball, he can ground himself again. Thoughts make way to instinct and muscle memory. Nothing but sticky trails of sweat carving their way down his face, harsh rays of sun fading in favor of moonlight, the crunch of sand under his cleats, controlled breathes interrupted by mechanical _clicks_ and responding metallic _clangs_.

It becomes the only thing he puts any effort into. He throws himself into it with the reckless abandon of a person who has nothing else to live for, setting higher and higher goals for himself because if he stops, he’ll shatter with no one willing to pick up the jagged remnants.

Hour after hour, night after night, he keeps practicing long after his arms turn into leaden weights and he loses feeling in them, wrapping bandages around swollen, blistered hands.

And still, progress doesn’t come. Rather, he’s forced to decrease the speed of the pitches after one too many close calls. He loses battles against weighted eyelids in class, then loses more against problems on the board. His teammates never fail to point out his decrease in pitching speed (stiff fingers slipping off the ball too soon), and their accusing stares follow him after he loses a game with an unprecedented number of strikes.

Takeshi notices when Dame-Tsuna runs to school in nothing but his underwear, of course. Everyone does. It’s a surprise that kindles the first ghost of emotion he’s felt in years. So, Takeshi stays behind after the baseball game to talk to this classmate that somehow managed to inspire _hope_ of all things when he’d nearly given up the possibility of it happening ever again.

Dame-Tsuna is small, mousy, and unremarkable, seemingly the exact same as always, and Takeshi can’t believe he’s asking the class outcast for advice. And yet, in the past week, Dame-Tsuna has somehow managed several incredible feats and is in the process of turning his life around. If there’s even the slightest chance of him being able to pull Takeshi from his slump (not back to normal, with emotions and genuine smiles and _happiness_ , Takeshi’s long given up on that ever happening), then Takeshi has to try.

He walks away with the understanding that clearly, his backwards progress was his fault all along. He just wasn’t trying hard enough. So, he warms up, stretches out, and sets the pitching machine to its highest speed. This time, he won’t let his weakness get in the way.

It’s…difficult. He misses the first two, then has the bat ripped out of his hands upon contact with the third ball.

It’s when he’s bending down to pick up the fallen bat that he hears the mechanical _click_ of another ball being loaded and fired.

_Shi—_

Wide eyes whip up just in time to focus on a blur headed straight for his head—

_There’s no time_ —

His arm raises to block on reflex—

**_CrUnCH_ **

…

Blank eyes stare at an arm bent in a way that _wasn’t natural_ , and he just…can’t…

Takeshi bends over (away from the pitching machine’s line of fire, he can’t repeat that again, he can’t, hisarmisbrokenohgods) and vomits, nausea bubbling and spitting out, tears blending with sweat, shocks racking his frame.

And he—he can’t afford to break here (but he’s already broken just like his _arm_ ), there’s no one around, no one to call for help, he doesn’t even have a phone yet because his dad was going to get him one for high school and _oh gods him arm is broken what is he going to do_ and, and, and—pitching machine, the pitching machine, he has to turn off the pitching machine.

His mind narrows in on that one thought, clutching like a lifeline to that concrete action.

Turn off the machine, get to the hospital, call Dad, put on a splint, wait, oh Dad’s here? Yes, he knows to take it easy for the next week before getting a cast. Go home, wrap the splint, take a shower, unwrap splint, brush teeth, go to bed.

Lying under the covers, arm propped on a few pillows, Takeshi looks at his ceiling and just…laughs.

His chest shakes, chuckles turning into hiccups which give way to wracking, choked-off sobs. He can’t sleep, can’t return to his previous apathy in face of this overwhelming wave of emotion in all of its terrible glory. He just gasps, giggles in spite of it all because he’s broken, perhaps has been so for a long time now, and no one cares enough to notice.

The next day, he gets up, goes through his morning routine as usual, and slips into the mask that’d been cracking more and more every day one last time. It’s perfect once again, shiny and flawless and plasticky-smooth. He waves his dad goodbye and jogs away to greet faceless classmates just as usual. His teammates greet him as well, looks of disdain and sneers at his injury hidden under their own masks of joking comradery.

It doesn’t matter.

The thing is, Takeshi doesn’t want to die, not quite. But he has nothing to live for, nothing to strive for now that his injury has kicked him out of baseball for the immediate future (and does he even want to live for a game in which his teammates care nothing for him but only his skills?) His mask…his mask has been crumbling away for years. Its obvious plasticity was the only way Takeshi knew how to plead for help, hoping for somebody, anybody, to notice.

But no one did.

Or at least, no one who noticed cared enough to do anything.

Takeshi isn’t truly ready to give up completely yet, but he’s so, so tired. Still, when he goes to the roof, he makes sure he picks a spot visible to most, makes sure he bumps into as many people as possible on his way up. Then he climbs over the fence and waits.

The swarm of people flooding onto the rooftop don’t disappoint, but their words do.

_Hey Yamamoto, this isn’t funny_

_You’re taking it too far_

_Your arm will heal, it’s not worth it_

These people who never thought to look underneath even the surface level, who saw fit to act as his friends and admirers while gossiping behind his back…he’s standing at the edge of a roof and they still have the nerve to claim this is a joke? That he’s seeking attention or immature enough to commit suicide over an _arm_? Yes, his arm was the catalyst, but have any of his so-called _friends_ put even a little effort into understanding him rather than imposing their own judgements?

Yet another disappointment.

He begins to turn around, gaze drawn longingly to the ground (freedom) so far below—

and Dame-Tsuna crashes through the crowd to land in a heap right in front of him.

_Interesting._

Takeshi can still remember the stuttered advice on effort given yesterday. But perhaps…

_I arrogantly told you…_

_…I’m a pathetic person who would have regrets when dying, thinking if I’m going to die then I should’ve done it with my dying will…_

It’s not even a spark, just a wisp of potential, but it’s enough. And Takeshi’s curious enough about this ‘dying will’ and how it could motivate someone who arguably has it even worse than him that he’s willing to give this potential a chance. He reaches out to his fleeing classmate…

and then they’re both falling backwards, off the roof, down, down, dow—

_OH SHIT_

—but then Tsuna’s in his underwear again, flames roaring to life on his head (wait what, how is that possible has that always happened?), and then a _spring_ sprouts out of nowhere and then they’re bouncing instead of splattering into paste on the sidewalk.

Then Tsuna’s himself again, flames nowhere in sight, stuttering all over the place, and Takeshi’s eyes soften.

_Dying Will, huh?_

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't planning on writing this. It's been a very long time since I entered the KHR fandom. But I've been struggling with depression for years now, and had a recent episode this week. It was probably building up as a result of quarantine and separation from the unique brand of chaos that my college friends bring, which normally doesn't allow me to slip as far as I have in the past, but it ultimately culminated in several days of being plagued with suicidal thoughts, and this fic was my way of working through it.
> 
> I think Yamamoto often doesn't get enough credit, especially by those who only know him from the anime. Even in the manga, his suicide is kind of played off as an impulsive decision made by an immature, baseball-obsessed kid. But when you're thinking about death all day, you cycle through the different ways people can die. And you know? If someone really wanted to die, there are faster and/or less conspicuous ways of doing it. Jumping off of a rooftop is attention-catching, and not only does Yamamoto choose this method, but he also waits long enough for a crowd to form and for Tsuna to talk to him rather than simply jumping immediately. All I see in this suicide attempt is a desperate cry for help from a kid who's looking for anyone to give him something worth living for. Sure, he's immature in that he doesn't see that his dad has always been there for him, but it's also a lessen in noticing signs and then reaching out rather than waiting for them to come to you. Because sometimes, people with mental health issues can't communicate directly, but that doesn't mean they aren't projecting in other ways.


End file.
